As Austin knows, I am a recent (and disappointingly so) cast-off of Manhattan, set adrift in the endless sea of wheat fields and fruited plains that comprise our American soil. What you, our dear readers, don't know is that I work in a school for training the wee ones in the ways of music and theatre. And, as I'm sure you've discovered in our first post, I particularly dislike the miniscule brand of humans we so disgustingly refer to our as our "offspring". Children are whining, sobbing, sniffling, snotty pieces of crap.
You know, besides my nieces and nephew...and me, when I was a kid...and you, presumably.
But, all told, kids suck.
Imagine my horror, then, relegated to working in a place not only rife with an endless supply of gag-inducing mini-minions, but a trap where children are encouraged to pick up beautifully crafted tools of rhythm and transform them into sonar death machines.
..........................................
Sorry, I just had to give a drum student (a.k.a. Soldier of Satan) the death glare.
How on EARTH am I supposed to endure my hangover with the constant thumpa-thump-thump of wooden stick fucking metal lid?
But, I digress a bit, my creampuffs. Today's RANT is not about musical torture. No, my sweet, precious doves.
Today is about fat children.
Look, I respect the devastating immortality of fat. It is a sickeningly pervasive evil; even GaGa's got some jiggle in her wiggle. Even (choke) Austin and I.
It's a hard lesson to learn: 0% Body Fat=Death.
But, nothing makes me sadder than a fat child relegated to what is practically a prison sentence as their prepubescent bodies take the long, slow road to Life's Big Change. Worse still is the child of fat parents; already, one can see the quiet defeat gathering behind their eyes.
I read a story in my doctor's office today (annual check-up, I'm healthy as the Jonas Brothers) about a nurse who had to push some man's belly fat in with both hands until she could literally scoop within and pull out his penis to insert a catheter. In the same magazine was a stat about the percentage of overweight children rising 17% in the past decade. A grim fate for fat America, who just seems to get fatter with the passing years, despite the best efforts of Whole Foods, Trader Joe's, and my finger down your throat.
Now it hits children. Sure, some part of me loves to see the younger generation flailing around in misery. 1) Because they're horrid 2) They'll be competition in ten years, and 3) They're horrid
However, a fat child now means a fat adult later. And this can only mean one thing for Austin and I: less choices (and, subsequently, partners) for buttsex.
Parents, if you're reading this, start educating your children now. I'm not saying we should all run out and introduce the ankle-biters to anorexia and bulimia, but just some of the healthier eating disorders. Like my personal hero, Celia Hodes, does on the fabulous Showtime series, WEEDS: give your kids some laxatives. Or, at least make sure their Flinstones vitamins come with dietary suppresants.
But, nothing makes me sadder than a fat child relegated to what is practically a prison sentence as their prepubescent bodies take the long, slow road to Life's Big Change. Worse still is the child of fat parents; already, one can see the quiet defeat gathering behind their eyes.
I read a story in my doctor's office today (annual check-up, I'm healthy as the Jonas Brothers) about a nurse who had to push some man's belly fat in with both hands until she could literally scoop within and pull out his penis to insert a catheter. In the same magazine was a stat about the percentage of overweight children rising 17% in the past decade. A grim fate for fat America, who just seems to get fatter with the passing years, despite the best efforts of Whole Foods, Trader Joe's, and my finger down your throat.
Now it hits children. Sure, some part of me loves to see the younger generation flailing around in misery. 1) Because they're horrid 2) They'll be competition in ten years, and 3) They're horrid
However, a fat child now means a fat adult later. And this can only mean one thing for Austin and I: less choices (and, subsequently, partners) for buttsex.
Parents, if you're reading this, start educating your children now. I'm not saying we should all run out and introduce the ankle-biters to anorexia and bulimia, but just some of the healthier eating disorders. Like my personal hero, Celia Hodes, does on the fabulous Showtime series, WEEDS: give your kids some laxatives. Or, at least make sure their Flinstones vitamins come with dietary suppresants.
"You don't want to be the fattest girl at fat camp, do you?"
